DEAD POET

Dragging the bag I walked

A bunch of unpublished works

Did I miss anything?

Were my words meaningless?

I carefully moulded my poems

Like a mother mould’s her child

Placed each letter delicately,

Stepping back and savouring its beauty

At every instance of completion.

The words made a garland,

Each connected by a thin hidden line,

The line which connected them to me.

There I will trick the readers.

The hidden line is my thread

Every words were special pearls in it.

Pearls created from the –

Dirt and stains of experience.

But the garland was found ugly,

Hidden lines never recognised

My words meaningless without them,

Lay dead and soulless –

In front of me!

I picked them up,

Everyone one of them,

Did I miss one?

I should search then,

For the poem is my child,

The result of my –

Strained heart—if not,

It might stain the

Path of the new poets ...